


I Don't Give A Damn About My Reputation- I'm Gonna Cry All Night Anyways

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Coping, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Healing, Heartbeats, Hurt/Comfort, Just a mention though, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He grips your chin and holds your face still, makes you look at him. He takes off his shades.</p><p>“I’m alive,” he repeats, and you suck in a breath that almost hurts, a gasp-choke-shudder, hands gripping his shirt.</p><p>“I’m alive,” he says again, and you- you look away. You stare down at his chest for confirmation, the white polo unblemished, no blossoming, cliche’d rose here; he is whole, untouched, and you gasp-choke-shudder again, in perfect rhythm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Give A Damn About My Reputation- I'm Gonna Cry All Night Anyways

**Author's Note:**

> You should take a look at this- I listened to it obsessively while writing this little shitheap. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZEbGdqnKL4

It had hurt, when he’d died. You’d been expecting that. You’d spent three years accepting it, taking that in, turning it into a truth your brain wouldn’t shove away in denial- your Bro was dead, a shitty sword through his chest pierced his heart and left him to bleed out on the cracked asphalt of the roof of your shitty apartment, and you… were alone.

But this is all past tense, now. Another two fucking years, long battles and fighting and death, so much death and blood and pain, and all of it has cumulated to this one moment, right here. All of your hard work and effort, all of your blood and sweat and tears, it is for this.

For a new world, and this new world… has your brother on it once again.

It is perfect, as perfect as something created by mortal hands can be- do you even count as mortals, anymore? You are gods, now, technically; you feel the passage of time so intimately that there is no way you can be fully mortal, not anymore, but… You are imperfect, and flawed. This place, though- this place is as perfect as it can get, and it has your brother on it, alive and well and whole.

When you step forward, your knees tremble. You are thirteen again, stepping towards him, weak and small and ineffective. You are eight again, stepping towards him, clumsy, unbalanced. You are five, four, three. You are two, you are one, just learning to walk, legs not strong enough to support your toddling body.

He holds out his arms to you, and you fall into them, your fingers clawing the soft fabric of his polo.

“Bro,” and even that one word seems a transgression, now; you feel like you should be quiet, like the silence speaks for itself, like any noise from your mouth will make him vanish into thin air but at the same time you desperately want to confirm his presence. You want him to be real, and not a figment of your broken mind and far more broken heart.

But his touch is heavy handed, arms thick and strong as they wrap around you and draw you in, press you to his chest like something fragile; you’ve never thought of yourself that way but maybe you are, now.

Because even as your cheek presses against his chest all you can feel is the wet, slick pulse of blood against your skin, the harsh stutters of his breath as he’d bled out, as his heart had stopped under your ear, under your hands, and you can’t breathe. He is alive, and he is in front of you, holding you, and all you can think of is the moment of his death, of his exit from the maelstrom of your life.

It hurts.

You want to toss it behind you, forget it like yesterday’s news, like yesterday’s fucking trash, but all you can think of as you touch him is the weakening beat of his heart- one sixteenth one eighth one fourth slower slower slower- the wash of his blood over your hands as you pressed them to his chest, and the cold steel against your fingers as you tried to keep him alive. It had been pointless then, and it’s pointless now, though for different reasons. Now, he’s alive, uninjured, and here, and before, he’d already been gone by the time your knees had hit the pavement; his blood had stained your pants, your skin, your memory, and even the steady tick of time hadn’t been enough to wash any of it away.

“Shh,” he says, his breath soft against your ear, in out in out slight hitch in out again again patterns repetitive over and over, “Shh, Dave. Just breathe.”

You are breathing, one sixteenth notes, fast and hard and even, hyperventilating in the most orderly fashion possible; even when out of whack, your body can’t go against the steady flow of time, movements precise down to the millisecond and beyond. It almost hurts. It _does_ hurt, your lungs aching, taxed as they are, and obligingly, you try to slow down.

His hand skims your spine, and you clench his shirt in your fists, gripping it so tight you fear it might rip, for a minute, but any attempts to get yourself to relax your grip is hopeless. Every time you try, you feel like he might slip away again, straight through your fingers like the blood from his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, one arm scooping up under your legs, carrying you like a child; you don’t give a thought to your reputation, your coolness, or any ironic factor this might have; you’re too busy clinging for dear life, to make sure this isn’t a fucking dream.

“Bro,” and is that really your voice? Is that broken whimper coming from your lips? It sounds different, unfamiliar, like it’s coming from somewhere far away and not from anywhere near your own mouth. You can’t find it in you to be embarrassed, now.

He shushes you again and you’re gone, the harsh beat of his steps on the roof, on the street, on every flat surface he can land on once too quick, now not even difficult to keep track of. Tap tap tap tap, one two three four one two three four, and you’re home.

It’s not quite right- something about the way the couch gives a little to the side when he sits, the way the place smells a little less like stale pizza and man, the way that the window sill doesn’t creak when the older man steps on it to launch himself inside, they’re small differences, enough to let you know that things have changed.

Small reminders.

Still, the couch is almost the same, and when he lays down with you against his chest, curled up like you’ve reverted back to the baby you feel like, his hand hot and heavy against the curve of your spine, it’s almost the same as well. Almost the same, except for the terror you feel, your hands constantly wandering, ghosting over the center of his chest like on the next pass, a hole will be there, and blood will spill through your fingers once again.

“I’m alive,” he says, and you nod, desperately, always in time one two three four one two three--

He grips your chin and holds your face still, makes you look at him. He takes off his shades.

“I’m alive,” he repeats, and you suck in a breath that almost hurts, a gasp-choke-shudder, hands gripping his shirt.

“I’m alive,” he says again, and you- you look away. You stare down at his chest for confirmation, the white polo unblemished, no blossoming, cliche’d rose here; he is whole, untouched, and you gasp-choke-shudder again, in perfect rhythm.

He grips your head and presses it down, against his chest; your ear finds his heart and everything goes quiet.

One two three four one two three four one two three four rhythmic, addictive repetition, over and over. Your breathing shifts in time, one two three four one two three four, his heart drumming a tattoo against his chest and suddenly you… are calm. Your hands relax, palms pressing flat instead of gripping tight; your fingers ache as you ease them from their positions, but you thank the little soldiers for adhering to their orders, and let them rest for now. You’ll need them when you wake up in the middle of the night screaming, metronomes ticking out of time in your ears as you hear his heart stutter to a stop. Again.

His hand cups the base of your skull, slides down to the scruff of your neck, holding tight, pressing your head to his chest as you calm to the rhythmic, addictive repetition of his heart; his other hand ghosts over the curl-press of your vertebrae, thumb hitting each chink in the stretched out planes of your skin.

“I should have known,” he says, soft, quiet, his voice a rolling wave, deep and intimate in ways that you’ve never quite been able to achieve with anyone else, pale, platonic or no, “This is the only thing that calmed you down when you were a little brat, you know? Never would stop crying unless you could hear my heart.”

His palm presses against your back and if you shut your eyes you can pretend you can feel his pulse in that, too, just as even as the beat of his heart.

“I’m here Dave,” he murmurs, and you choke, shuddering limp and helpless against his chest, “Shh, sweetheart, I have you.”

Crying isn’t a weakness, not acknowledging your emotions is. Even if it’s just in the private of your room, in the comfort of your pillow, not acknowledging your emotions will poison one from the inside, rot them away like water and iron, rusting, caustic, an irremovable stain on a soul.

You’d ignored that lesson, and now, you cry.

You lay against his chest curled like a child, your ear pressed to his heart, and you cry great, heaving sobs, trying to ignore the way your breath hitches in rhythm, the way your body works to a metronome only you can hear, and the way his doesn’t quite match up. You ignore the way your hands ache, your lungs and head ache, the way every inch of you aches, because you have him here, he’s in your arms and he is holding you, smoothing your hair from your face with gentle touches and making soft sounds of comfort as his heart beats steadily against you.

One two three four.

One two three four.

One two three four, in out in out, hitch sob body shudder shoulders jerk soft shush beat rhythm rhyme perfection.

It takes you exactly fifteen minutes and forty three seconds to stop crying. Nine hundred and forty three seconds. One thousand forty nine heartbeats- you know, you counted.

When you’re done, you’re spent, exhausted, depleted. Even if his arms hadn’t have pinned you to his chest, you wouldn’t have been able to move, but as it is, it seems like he has no intention of letting you go anywhere. He cradles you to him, and you lay limp, splayed across his body like a wet blanket, knees on either side of his waist, arms tucked against your chest. He presses a kiss to the top of you hair, and you close your eyes.

Gently, he removes your shades. You let him.

“I’m here,” he says, like a promise, like an apology, like a plea all rolled up in one, “I’m here, Dave. I’m alive.”

You nod.

His hand settles back over your spine, and you relax again, counting the rhythm of his heartbeat as you drift in and out of awakening. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s here, he’s alive, one two three four one two three four ba-bump breathe in ba-bump breath out rhythm pulse beat life breath--

You breathe, and he breathes, and your hearts settle to synchronization, your internal metronome lined up with his.

 


End file.
